


Drowning in the River of Dreams

by Glory1863



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Drown Malcolm Month, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:18:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glory1863/pseuds/Glory1863
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniels is messing around with the timeline again such that Malcolm keeps ending up in the midst of great maritime disasters. Is it any wonder that in the "real" world, he's terrified of drowning?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sultana

**Author's Note:**

> This, ladies and gents, is what I do with my degree in history. I have no idea what Mr. Keating is doing with his. In answer to a question I got at another site, the _Sultana_ , the _Eastland_ and the _Hood_ and what happened to them are "real." Beyond that, things may tend to get a little fuzzy. Did you pay attention in history class?

**April 26-27, 1865, on the  Mississippi River just north of Memphis**

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of Company K, 36th Illinois “Fox Valley Volunteers” stood at the railing of the steamboat _Sultana_ as the ship laboriously pushed its way north.  The great river was in flood stage and the ship, licensed to carry only 376 passengers, was packed with closer to 2,400, many being Union soldiers who had somehow survived Andersonville, the hellhole that was the Confederate prisoner of war camp in Sumter County, Georgia.  One of them was Reed’s friend, Charles “Trip” Tucker, III, a major in the US Army Corps of Engineers. 

Tucker and Reed were a strange pair.  Tucker, a Floridian by birth who held no truck with slavery and had taken his oath to defend the United States seriously, had remained loyal to the Union when many of his West Point classmates had resigned their commissions and “gone South” as the country broke apart after Abraham Lincoln won the presidency in the election of 1860.  Tucker was a handsome, outgoing man with blond hair, sparkling blue eyes and a lazy drawl that made him the target of much teasing which he bore with easy grace.  He was also a brilliant combat engineer, and his small unit of “sappers” routinely seemed to perform miracles laying corduroy roads and pontoon bridges, repairing railroads and constructing field fortifications.  They’d been attached to Brigade, which is how he’d met Reed.  Reed’s Company K often provided protection for Tucker and his men when they were working forward.  Tucker had been captured at the rout at Chickamauga.  Tall and thin to begin with, he was now little more than a walking skeleton after his stay as a guest of the Confederacy.  He’d been overjoyed when, while boarding the ship at Vicksburg, he’d meet up with Reed who had promised to get him home.

Reed had immigrated to America in his teens after his father had disowned him for refusing to follow in his footsteps, and the footsteps of generations of Reed men before him, who had made the Royal Navy their home.  He’d traveled steerage with some of his mother’s people who were fleeing the potato famine in Ireland.  He’d quickly learned it was better to speak with his father’s clipped accent  than with his mother’s musical brogue.  He was also careful to hide the rosary with the smooth wooden beads and small gold crucifix that she had given him.  The Irish and their religion were despised in his adopted country, but with his proper English accent he had been able to apprentice himself to a master gunsmith in Chicago and had found he had a real talent for the work.  In due course, he’d started his own business in one of the small farming communities on the rich land to the west of the city.  When war came, he joined up at the urging of the other men in town who valued his skills and knew they would be needed.  They had amazed the slender, quiet, unassuming young man with the shy smile by electing him one of the regimental officers.  It seemed like a lifetime ago rather than merely 3½  years.

Reed moved away from the railing.  Ever since that miserable passage to America in his youth, he had felt uneasy on the water.  He made his way back to the small space on deck that had been allotted to him and Tucker.  He pulled a piece of cheese out of his haversack and coaxed Tucker to eat some.  He then shared his bedroll with him, the two of them huddling together under the single blanket in a mostly vain effort to ward off the chill of the night.  Tucker couldn’t sleep.  He told Reed that the machinery of the ship just didn’t feel or sound right.  Reed tried to put it down to the ship’s overloaded condition and the strong current, but Tucker wasn’t convinced. 

At 3:00 a.m. one of the ship’s boilers exploded.  Passengers were blown into the water, many of them badly scalded by the escaping steam.  Burning embers were scattered about the wooden ship that quickly became a flaming hulk.  Passengers still aboard stampeded in an effort to escape the flames.  Both Reed and Tucker had suffered burns and were caught up in the press of people.  Somehow, Reed managed to keep a grip on Tucker even in the throng.  He remained mindful of his promise to his friend to see him safely home.  Eventually, they were pushed to the railing.  There was no choice really but to jump into the dark, cold and rapidly moving water.  Reed tightened his grip on Tucker, and they jumped together.  It was a shock when they hit the water.  At first, it almost felt good on Reed’s burns, but soon enough the cold had numbed him.  He wasn’t strong enough to fight the current, although he kept calling encouragement to Tucker and refused to let him go.  Tucker never replied, and Reed finally realized that his friend had long since died.  Nonetheless, one hand still tightly clung to Tucker while the other fumbled in a pocket for the comforting feel of the worn wooden beads.  In the musical brogue of his mother’s people, Reed began to recite the words:  _Hail, Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee. . ._

Their bodies were found together snagged in the branches of a tree a few miles down river from the scene of the disaster.  Colonel Jonathan Archer, Reed’s commanding officer, identified them.  He arranged for the embalming and had their bodies sent north by express train for burial at Elmwood, the new cemetery with the large, ornate, wrought iron gate and pointed wrought iron fence in the small, rural, county seat on the prairie.  He tried for years to get in touch with Tucker’s folks, to let them know what had befell their eldest son, but they were lost in the chaos of war and reconstruction.  He eventually received a letter from Captain Stuart Reed.  Yes, he’d had a son named Malcolm, a ne’er-do-well who’d run away from home at the age of 16, possibly for America.  He didn’t really know or care.  As far as he was concerned, the boy had been dead to him from that day.

Years passed.  Colonel Archer tended the graves until he moved away to take a job surveying Marias Pass for James J. Hill’s Great Northern Transcontinental Railway that ran from St.  Paul, Minnesota, to Seattle, Washington.  His place was taken by other veterans of the Grand Army of the Republic and their families.  Later still, Boy Scouts would place small American flags by the graves every Memorial Day.  In 2161, the tercentenary of the start of the Civil War, a local high school history teacher researching the lives of the “Boys in Blue” whose final resting place was Elmwood would write a book about Tucker and Reed and the disaster that had claimed their lives.  Despite the fact that anywhere from 1,500 to 1,700 people had died in the _Sultana_ tragedy, more than had died with the sinking of the _Titanic_ , virtually no one had heard of it.  It was the last gasp of a war that had claimed 600,000.  It was overshadowed by the assassination of President Lincoln that had occurred only a few weeks previously.  People had been ready to move on with their lives and to put the unpleasantness behind them. 

It took a few years, but the members of the local Civil War Round Table eventually got all the necessary papers together, and on Memorial Day, 2165, new standard issue grave markers were obtained from the Department of Veterans Affairs to replace the crumbling, illegible makers for the two old graves side by side in the shade of the massive elm tree just inside the great wrought iron gate.  Civil War re-enactors stood guard for the entire three-day weekend.  The high school band marched past to the somber sounds of the “dead cadence” with only the Stars and Stripes flying free.  At the end of the ceremony, the lead trumpet, a senior soon to graduate and bound for the Air Force Academy in the fall, played _Taps_.  He hoped that by the time he received his commission, the US would finally have a warp 5 vessel.  He wasn’t sure yet whether he preferred weapons or engines, but he knew he wanted to be on that ship.  He wondered what the two long-dead warriors would think of it.


	2. Eastland

**July 24, 1915, on the Chicago River at LaSalle Street**

It was 6:30 in the morning and the lake steamer _S.S. Eastland_ was already taking on passengers.  Employees of Western Electric’s sprawling Hawthorne Works in suburban Cicero were on their way, with their families, to a company-sponsored outing across the tip of Lake Michigan in Michigan City, Indiana.  Among them were two young men who worked for the firm as electrical engineers and shared rented rooms in a large “painted lady” Victorian house owned by their landlady, Mrs. Fitzgerald, an elderly, bird-like woman who spoke with a delightful Irish brogue. 

Mrs. Fitzgerald had been up since the crack of dawn packing a picnic lunch for her boarders.  The large wicker basket was loaded with fresh baked bread, cheese, sausage, homemade pickles, cabbage salad, apples, chocolates and bottles of root beer.  She was quite fond of her young boarders and treated them almost as if they were her sons.  She was a widowed lady with no living children of her own left. 

Her boarders were an odd pair.  Charles Tucker, III, Trip to his friends, was the son of a sharecropper who raised peanuts near the small town of Plains in southern Georgia.  The Tucker family were what the elite of the South would call “poor white trash”, but Trip had not only managed to graduate from high school, but also to gain an appointment to the Military Academy at West Point.  Apparently, he’d used his famed “tinkering” ability to repair a tractor and some other machines on a congressman’s farm and had received the appointment in payment.  He’d been formally introduced to electrical engineering in the army.  After fulfilling his service commitment, he’d stayed up north to work for Western Electric which manufactured that newfangled wonder, the telephone.  He sent money home regularly to his folks in the hope that his little sister, Lizzie, would be allowed to stay in school.  Her dream was to become a teacher. 

Malcolm Reed, like many Reed men before him, including his father, Captain Stuart Reed, had gone into the Royal Navy.  He had been trained as a gunnery officer but became fascinated by wireless telegraphy and had eventually left the navy to seek a position with the Marconi Corporation.  His decision didn’t sit well with his father who disowned him forthwith.  Reed was intelligent, disciplined and hardworking.  By April of 1912, he was one of Marconi’s most talented operators; thus, he was assigned to the White Star Line’s newest luxury liner that was making its maiden voyage to New York.  At the last minute, though, he’d come down with pneumonia and had been replaced by his friend, Jack Phillips.  On the night of April 14-15, 1912, the supposedly unsinkable ship had struck an iceberg.  Phillips had manned his station and had continuously sent the all-station distress signal, first CQD and then the new SOS, until he no longer had power.  By then, it was too late to escape, and he became one of the 1,500 or so who went down with the _Titanic_.  Reed was devastated and blamed himself for the death of his friend.  He found he could no longer function as a shipboard operator.  His terror of drowning had become too great.  His last posting had been aboard the _Lusitania_ on a voyage to New York.  He’d stayed in America and obtained a position with Western Electric.

At her insistence, the young men joined their landlady in a breakfast of oatmeal and strong, dark tea before catching the trolley for the ride down to the Loop.  Once again she marveled at their differences.  Tucker was the outgoing one, tall, thin, blond haired and blue eyed.  His southern drawl and easy, polite manner drew people to him like bees to honey.  Only in fashion sense was he lacking, his apparel being much to bright for his landlady’s taste.  Reed, on the other hand, was innately shy, lithe and dark haired with haunted blue-gray eyes.  He used his English accent and excruciatingly polite manner as a defense against a world that threatened to overwhelm him.  He was, in his landlady’s opinion, suitably attired in his Sunday best, except of course, for the bright blue scarf he wore at his neck to ward off the slight early morning chill.  It had been a Christmas gift from Tucker and he treasured it.  As far as Mrs. Fitzgerald could determine, Reed had received few gifts in his short life.

When they got to the embarkation point, Reed took Tucker aside and tried to explain that he didn’t like the look of the ship.  To his practiced eye, it seemed top-heavy and overcrowded.  Tucker tried to allay his fears.  It was only a short trip; it was July, so there’d be no ice; and there were plenty of lifeboats.  Reed was more right than he knew.  The _Eastland_ had always been difficult to sail.  It was top-heavy to begin with, and the mandated addition of so many lifeboats after the _Titanic_ disaster had only made the problem worse.  By 7:00 a.m., when Tucker and Reed boarded the ship, it was also close to its capacity of 2,500 and yet large numbers of people were still thronging aboard.   

By 7:20 a.m., boarding had ceased.  The ship’s capacity had been reached.  The ship had also developed a slight list to port (to the left or the river side).  Most people didn’t seem to notice, including Tucker, and the ship’s band continued to play ragtime music.  Reed’s unease increased along with the ship’s list and became full-blown panic by the time one of the ship’s officers encouraged the passengers to move to starboard (to the right or the dock side).  It was too late to either correct the problem or to get off the ship in an orderly fashion.  By 7:28 a.m., the _Eastland_ had rolled over on its side in 20 feet of water and only 20 feet from the wharf. 

Fortunately, Tucker and Reed had been on deck at the time and were thrown into the water.  Both could swim and thus had a chance to survive, but those who had gone below decks to get out of the mist were largely trapped inside, crushed by heavy furniture or drowned.  Tucker spotted Reed because of his bright blue scarf and tried to make his way to him through the mass of people and debris in the cold, dark, dank water.  Their clothes weighed them down.  Non-swimmers grasped them, clung to them and eventually pulled them both under.  The two friends died within an arm’s length of each other, two of the 844 that died that day.

Rumors of the tragedy made their way back to the neighborhoods.  By late afternoon, when her lodgers hadn’t returned, Mrs. Fitzgerald boarded the trolley and went downtown in search of them.  She found them placed side by side in the armory building, Reed conspicuous by his bright blue scarf. 

As she had seen to the burial of her husband and all their children, she now saw to the burial of her two surrogate sons.  She had them brought out to the small rural town where she and her husband had settled when they first came to America, to Elmwood with its great wrought iron gate, to the Fitzgerald family plot in the shadow of the new mausoleum.  The grave marker was a slab of light gray granite.  Etched into its surface was a representation of the _Eastland_ on its side in the river and an angel leading two young men heavenward. 

The Tuckers always meant to come north to see Trip’s grave.  All they needed was one good crop and they’d finally have the money.  Mary Reed meant to visit Malcolm’s grave after the war.  Her husband, Stuart, would never have permitted it, of course.  To him, Malcolm had died the day he left the Royal Navy, but Stuart had died himself at the Battle of Jutland, so Mary was free to do as she wished.  By 1918, however, there were no Tuckers, Reeds or Fitzgeralds left.  They’d all died in the great flu pandemic. 

Years passed.  In the late 1900s, a charismatic black woman dubbed “The Queen of Talk” bought an old cold storage warehouse that had once been an armory and turned it into the soundstage and offices for her wildly successful production company.  Staff working late into the night reported strange goings on.  More than once, as they returned to their offices from a trip to the vending machine, they would meet an unknown, slender, pale, dark-haired young man dressed in vintage clothing.  His message was always the same:  “It was all my fault.  I should have protected Charles.  He was my friend, and I failed him.”  By the time Security could be summoned, the man was always gone.  By all reports, two things stood out about him:  He always spoke softly and politely with an English accent, and he was wearing, somewhat incongruously, a bright blue scarf.

In 2161, some 250 years after the sinking of the _Eastland_ , Captain Jonathan Archer, Professor of Military History at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland, paid a visit to his home town in Illinois.  He wondered if the big gravestone with the picture of the sunken ship on it that he remembered from childhood explorations in the cemetery was still there.  Sure enough, it had been carefully maintained and was a popular stop on the Cemetery Walk held during the town’s Pumpkin Festival each year in late October.  Archer made a study of the long-forgotten tragedy of the _Eastland_ , and the resulting book, published by the Naval Institute Press, won the Pulitzer Prize in History in 2165.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of local history for me. At one time, there was a small storefront museum dedicated to relics from the _Eastland_ in the next town over. If you visit Chicago, there is a plaque at LaSalle Street and the river dedicated to the _Eastland_. If you happen to visit around Halloween, you can take a Haunted Chicago tour that includes Harpo Studios. Yes, that part is "true", too.


	3. Hood

**May 24, 1941, in the Denmark Strait, North Atlantic Ocean**

Commander Malcolm Reed, gunnery control officer for the battlecruiser _HMS Hood,_ strode purposefully along the deck to his post in response to the klaxon’s call to “Action Stations.”  The elusive German battleship _Bismarck_ had finally been found, and if Reed and his guns (and he **did** think of them as **his** guns) had anything to say about it, “Corporal” Hitler was about to lose the pride of the _Kriegsmarine_. 

Reed was proud of his ship, the largest capital ship afloat at the time.  _Hood_ was longer than _Bismarck_ , though not as wide in the beam, with a similar main armament of 8 (4 x 2) 15-inch guns.  He knew there were those who considered _Hood_ to already be obsolete when she was launched in 1918 - indeed she was the last of her class to be completed and was considered the _grande dame_ of the Royal Navy.  As the pride of the fleet, though, she had seen considerable service between the wars - showing the flag about the empire and in various foreign ports - which meant she was due for a refit, including an upgrade to the guns, in 1941, but the start of the war and _Bismarck_ ’s breakout put paid to that. 

Reed didn’t complain.  He was aware of his ship’s limitations and made allowances for them.  He concentrated on making his gun crews the best in the fleet and trained them incessantly.  He knew his subordinates considered him to be a strict, demanding officer who was cold, distant and aloof.  He was aware of the other words they used to describe him, too, words not appropriate for print, but he didn’t care.  The guns were there to protect the ship, and the ship was there to protect England and the empire from the likes of Herr Hitler, not withstanding what his Sovereign Majesty, King Edward VIII, might think of the man.

Reed took his position behind the rangefinder.  He spared one last, quick glance at _HMS Prince of Wales_ , the new battleship sailing in tandem with _Hood_.  The ship was so new, in fact, that there were still problems with her weapons systems, and she had sailed with civilian technicians aboard who were working feverishly to get the kinks ironed out before the ship went into battle.  The man in charge of those technicians was a retired Royal Navy ordnance officer of some renown by the name of Stuart Reed.  Out of respect, his workers called him “Captain”, but the gunnery control officer on the _Hood_ called him “Father.”

The younger Reed turned his attention (and the rangefinder) to the business at hand.  The _Bismarck_ was sailing with the cruiser _Prinz Eugen_ , and their silhouettes were so similar that it was difficult to tell them apart.  Reed concentrated on the right-hand or trailing ship believing that it was _Bismarck_.  He noted that the “gun ready” lights were lit.  He began calling ranges and working to bring the two images he saw on his machine together.  When they were, and with his admiral’s permission, he’d open fire. 

In truth, Reed was a bit uneasy.  One of the allowances he had to make for his ship was that her upper decks above his magazines were poorly armored.  This meant that _Hood_ had to rapidly close range with her opponent to cut her vulnerability to high-trajectory plunging shot that could cut through the ship to explode within her own ammunition.  The admiral had ordered this to be done, but on their present course, Reed could only make use of his two forward turrets.   

Permission to fire was given, and Reed relayed the order to shoot.  He then watched for the fall of shot.  It was close to the target, but not as close as the enemy fire was to his ship.  _Hood_  was bracketed by the first German salvo.  With a muttered curse, Reed set about correcting the error.

Aboard the _Prince of Wales_ , the elder Reed was called upon to diagnose a problem with one of its rangefinders.  It was frozen in position, and when he looked through it, he saw a massive pillar of flame erupt just aft of amidships on the _Hood_.  His first thought was that one of the 15-inch guns had misfired, but when he caught a glimpse of the ship again through a break in the roiling dark cloud of smoke that enveloped her, he realized that the situation was much worse than that.  _Hood_ had broken in half as if she were no more than a smashed toy in the hands of a petulant child.  He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until he heard his assistant ask, “Beg pardon, sir.  Did you say the _Hood’_ s gone?  All those lads are gone?”

Indeed, some 1,400 “lads” were gone, but Stuart Reed could think of only one, a dark-haired, slim, elegant, athletic young man with stormy blue-gray eyes.  An intelligent, hardworking, competent officer with a promising career before him.  A gentle, kind and loving soul.  His cherished only son - Malcolm.  How could he explain this loss to Mary?  In this day and age, one wasn’t suppose to bury one’s children; yet, they’d already buried Madeline.  She’d been working as a nurse in London and had been killed in the Blitz the year before.  Now Malcolm was gone.  Stuart took several deep breaths in an attempt to slow the rapid, irregular pounding of his heart, the result of a weakened mitral valve that had lead to his medical discharge from the Royal Navy.  Anger burned within him.  He’d set this ship to rights, even if it damn near killed him!  Then they’d go hunting for the big bastard who took his boy.  It was time for the Jerries to suffer the pain and loss that he had.

Malcolm Reed found himself deep underwater with no conscious memory of how he’d gotten there.  He remembered seeing the rippling orange flashes from the guns on the German ships, but he didn’t remember seeing, feeling or hearing the _Hood_ get hit by the incoming rounds.  He struggled up toward the light but was sure he wouldn’t make it.  His lungs were burning and felt as if they were about to explode.  He must be caught in the suction from the sinking ship.  Just as he was about to give up and accept his fate, he popped to the surface like a cork.  He was amazed to find so little debris from so large a ship.  As far as he could tell, he was alone.

He swam to a large, flat, raft-like piece of metal - part of one of his gun turrets if he made out the markings correctly - and managed to haul himself aboard.  Off in the distance, one of the destroyers was slowly and carefully moving into the debris field.  It stopped once, twice, three times to take survivors aboard.  Reed waved wildly and called out, but the destroyer turned away.  Either he hadn’t been seen or the ship had been warned that there was a U-boat about.

Reed shuddered at the thought of a U-boat.  It wasn’t like them to pick up survivors.  The logical part of his mind pointed out, “Well, with barely enough room for their own crews, where would they put them if they did?”  Still, he’d heard the rumor that some U-boat captains ordered survivors to be machine-gunned in the water.  Given that he was wet to the core and shivering uncontrollably in the cold, he began to wonder, if it came down to cases, whether he would consider slow freezing to death or a quick bullet to the brain a more merciful end.

The next thing he knew, he heard engines.  He tried to place the sound.  Not heavy and powerful enough for a destroyer, but not a U-boat running on the surface with its diesel engines either.  Too powerful for any sort of motorized launch.  He struggled to wipe the caked salt brine and fuel oil away from his eyes as his raft bumped into something.  He heard a voice call to him, “Easy there, Lieutenant.  I’ll have you aboard in a jiffy.”  Strong hands grasped him and strong arms pulled him into a Catalina Flying Boat.  It wasn’t that the disembodied voice had demoted him that he’d noticed, but rather that the voice, by the way it had pronounced the rank, was definitely American as were the markings on the plane - a red ball within a white star within a blue ball.

He was bundled into blankets, and gentle hands set about cleaning his face.  “Hey, Scotty,” the voice called forward.  “Pass that thermos on back here, will you?  Then you can take her up.”

“Aye, sir,” Scotty answered with a definite Scots brogue.  The engines roared to life, and the plane took off.

“Begging your pardon, Commander,” the tall, thin, blond-haired young man said with an emphasis on Reed’s rank.  “I didn’t mean any disrespect back there.”

“No offense taken, sir, I assure you.  I’m most grateful for your assistance.”

“I’m afraid all we got is coffee, but it’s hot, and it’ll warm you up, especially if I put a little of this in it.”  The Yank, also a commander if Reed was reading his rank badges correctly, pulled a silver flask out of his hip pocket and poured a generous amount of its contents into the thermos.  “Take it slow, sir.  You may feel poorly at first.”  He’d procured a helmet and placed it unobtrusively beside Reed.  “There’s plenty.  We got more up front.”  He helped steady the thermos as Reed’s hands were still shaking badly.  Reed took a couple tentative swallows.  The coffee was hot and strong, its bitterness mellowed somewhat by the whiskey.  When he was sure he could keep it down, he began to drink in a more normal fashion.  The warmth seemed to flood into him.

“May I have the honor of your name, sir?”  he finally asked.

“My name’s Tucker, Charles Tucker, III, - Trip to my friends - of the Charleston, South Carolina, Tuckers.”  Trip chuckled at the polite but blank expression on Reed’s face.  “You might have heard of my Uncle Preston, Preston Tucker, of Chicago, Illinois.  He makes motor cars.”

Reed’s eyes widened in surprise.  Of course he’d heard of Preston Tucker and the Tucker Torpedo.  The car had sleek, aerodynamic styling that a later generation would call fastback.  It had a rear engine, magnesium wheels, disc brakes, fuel injectors, overhead values instead of a camshaft and a directional third headlight nicknamed the “Cyclops eye” for use in turns.  “Good lord, the Torpedo is your uncle’s car?  It’s a right beauty, it is,” Reed said in true admiration.  “I’m afraid it’s a bit more than I can afford on navy pay, though.”

Trucker grinned from ear to ear and his bright blue eyes sparkled.  “Might be a bit difficult to go joy riding, too, what with the gas rationing and all.  You come on over next time you get leave and we’ll go cruising, Commander.”

Reed smiled.  “My name is Reed, by the way, Malcolm Reed, of the Leicester Reeds.”  He knew the alcohol was beginning to affect him when he laughed at the wry face Tucker made as he shrugged his shoulders.

“May I ask what brings you out this way, Commander?  Not that I would wish it otherwise, mind you.”

“Just keeping an eye on things for the President.  He thinks it’s in America’s best interest to help you Limeys out.”  Tucker’s grin made it clear to Reed that there was no ill will in the epithet.  “It’s a tough sell, though.”

Reed thought this brash Yank had a real talent for understatement.  Roosevelt had barely won reelection in 1940, his chief competition coming not from the Republican candidate, Wendell Willkie, but from the candidate of a third party.  The America First party favored isolationism and had drafted as its candidate the famed aviator, Jonathan Archer, who had been the first man to make a solo flight across the Atlantic in his plane _The Spirit of Chicago_.

“No offense, Malcolm, but I’d rather be keeping an eye on things in the Pacific.  It’s a hell of a lot warmer.  I hate cold.  I surely do!  We’ve been trying to get a long-term lease on Pearl Harbor from the Kingdom of Hawaii.  Now is not the time to be getting kicked out of there.  Know what I mean?  You ever seen it?”

Reed had been there on one of _Hood_ ’s “show the flag” cruises before the war.  Under normal circumstances he might have reminded Tucker that the fine harbor was much like the one in Taranto where British carrier-based planes had torpedoed the battleships of the Italian navy some 6 months previously.  These weren’t normal circumstances, however.  The liquor, the coffee and the blankets had finally warmed him.  The adrenaline unleashed by the short battle and his near drowning had finally left him.  He fell asleep listening to Tucker recounting his exploits on the warm, sandy beaches in the company of the warm ladies of the Sandwich Islands.


	4. Enterprise

**September 2, 2161, aboard the _Enterprise_ , in orbit above Vulcan**

Malcolm Reed struggled up through the frigid, dark water toward the light and the voice he heard calling his name.  He was desperately tired, cold and hungry.  The heavy blue wool uniform weighed him down.  The bright blue scarf at his throat seemed to be choking him, so he clawed at it with his fingers.  His lungs burned and felt as if they were about to explode.  He’d never make it!  He began to panic.  Strong hands grasped his.  Were they trying to help him or to drown him?  He heard a voice call out, “Doc, get over here!  Malcolm’s waking up.”  The voice turned its attention to him.  “Malcolm, you relax now, hear?  Doc says you’ll be fine.  You’re safe, Malcolm.  Just relax.”

Reed followed the voice’s command now that he recognized it as belonging to his closest friend and first officer, Commander Charles “Trip” Tucker, III.  As Reed ceased struggling, the strong hands released their grip.  A gentle hand brushed his dark hair back off his forehead.  His blue-gray eyes fluttered open.  He recognized the bright light and sterile white of his ship’s sickbay.  He recognized Tucker's blond hair and worried blue eyes.  He recognized the doctor and prepared himself for the inevitable questions.

Did he know who he was?  The short answer, all that the Geneva Convention required he give, was that he was Malcolm Reed.  He held the rank of captain.  His identity number was SW1NX01601789.

Did he know where he was?  He was in sickbay _(again!)_ on board his ship, Her Majesty’s Starship _Enterprise_.

Did he know what day it was?  The last date he remembered was August 31, 2161.  If the doctor told him how long he’d been unconscious, he could figure out what day it was.  He didn’t think his considerable mathematical skills were impaired.

Did he know who sat upon the throne?  Her Sovereign Majesty, Diana, by the Grace of God, Queen of England and Empress of Earth.

That was the short version.  The long version was much more interesting.  He was the Honorable Malcolm Reed, the only son of Stuart, the 20th Earl Reed of Elmwood and current First Lord of the Admiralty, and his wife, the Lady Mary Dominica Keating-Reed, a peer of the realm in her own right, but of the Irish peerage.  He had been born at Elmwood, the sprawling estate in the lush farmland to the west of Chicago in the Dominion of America.  The estate, a land grant in the old Northwest Territory, had been a gift from His Majesty, King George III, to the First Earl Reed in recognition of his services to the crown in the First War of the American Rebellion.

Malcolm Reed had never spent much time at home.  While his father served as commandant of the Great Lakes Naval Training Station, the boot camp for colonial Americans wishing to join the ranks of the Royal Navy, and then as the admiral commanding the 9th Naval District (Great Lakes) of the Dominion of America, Malcolm had been sent off to England for a proper education at a military boarding school, Eton, Oxford and finally the Royal Naval College.  He was also taught to speak with a proper English accent, not the flat Midwestern accent of his birthplace that somehow managed to put an “r” in “wash.”

At the Naval College, he’d met two fellow cadets who would have a profound impact on his life.  The first was HRH William Arthur Edward, the Duke of York.  He’d introduced his sister, Madeline, to William.  One thing led to another, and now Maddie was a duchess.  He had to call her “Ma’am” and bow to her.  She made sure he never forgot that, either.

The second was his roommate, a loud, brash, intrusive, devil-may-care colonial who was the scion of one of the oldest, wealthiest and most staunchly Loyalist families in the Dominion of America.  Charles “Trip” Tucker, III, had a brilliant mind when he chose to apply himself which he did just enough to keep from being expelled.  He was proud of his heritage and never bothered to cultivate a proper English accent in place of his distinctive colonial drawl.  He was also a demerit magnet and ceaselessly tried to involve his roommate in his schemes.  Reed had had enough and was planning on applying for a different roommate for the next term, but then they’d gone on the training cruise on the old square-rigged ship and the accident had happened.  He’d been aloft taking in sail as the weather began to deteriorate.  Somehow, part of the rigging had given way and he’d fallen.  Fortunately, he ended up in the water - a fall to the deck from that height would surely have killed him outright.  Unfortunately, he was still tangled in the ropes and would have drowned if Trucker hadn’t dove in without a second thought and rescued him. 

Reed had earnestly and sincerely expressed his gratitude.  Tucker had been uncharacteristically modest and self-effacing.  It was nothing.  Reed would have done the same for him.  It was duty.  He mouthed all the clichés, but when they’d gotten back to their room he’d finally told Reed the truth.  “You know, Malcolm, sometimes you give me a royal pain right where I sit, but I’ve sort of gotten used to you.  I wouldn’t want to have to train up somebody new.”  He’d actually gotten Reed to laugh at that.  Next term, they were still rooming together and Tucker was “mighty obliged.”  Reed had merely smiled and murmured something about “the devil you know.”

A few uncharitable souls ascribed Tucker's subsequent successful career in the fleet air arm solely to his connection with the family of the First Sea Lord.  Reed would never have even considered asking his father to show such favoritism to his friend.  Admiral Lord Reed, however, despite being a rather undemonstrative man, loved his son a great deal and was inordinately, if secretly, proud of him.  He was also grateful for Tucker's heroics and kept an eye on his career.  Whenever possible, Tucker and the younger Reed served together.  If anyone had had the temerity to question him about the assignments, Admiral Lord Reed would simply have remarked that there had been a synergy between the Reeds and the Tuckers since the late 1700s.

During the First War of the American Rebellion, Charles Lee Tucker had been the deputy of the British commanding general in North America, General Lord Cornwallis.  As such, he had chased the ragtag rebels through the Carolinas and Virginia until he had trapped them on the Yorktown peninsula.  The rebel general, George Washington, had hoped to evacuate his army by sea with the help of a French squadron, but Malcolm, Viscount (soon to be the first Earl) Reed, in command of the British North American squadron had routed the French by destroying several ships and taking more as prizes.  Washington had been forced to surrender, and in due time he and his officers were executed for treason.  Tucker and Reed had celebrated their joint victory at Tucker’s home, Arlington House, on the bluff overlooking the Potomac across from what would become the colonial capital of Georgetown.

One hundred years later, during the Second War of the American Rebellion, Robert Lee Tucker (Marse Robert or Bobbie-Lee to Trip Tucker, depending on how many pints he’d had) had been given the honor of commanding the Army of the Potomac, the main British force in eastern America.  He’d finally brought the upstart rebel Army of Northern Virginia to heel at a small Pennsylvania town called Gettysburg.  He’d been an observer at the Battle of Balaclava some ten years before and had no intention of making the same mistake Lord Raglan had when he’d ordered the charge of the Light Brigade.  He waited patiently in his strong line atop Cemetery Ridge, the Round Tops and Culp’s Hill.  He had the measure of his opposite number, General Gardner, and knew that he could be induced to recklessly attack a well-fortified position.  He hadn’t been wrong.  Gardner ordered the division of Major General Henry Archer to stage a frontal assault on Tucker’s line.  In the disastrous Archer’s Charge, the Army of Northern Virginia and the dream of a free America were broken.

As much as Tucker loved telling this story, he allowed as how his illustrious ancestor had had just a smidgen of help from the Reeds.  Stuart, the 5th Earl Reed, had commanded naval forces in the West.  He put down the rebellion in New Orleans and secured the Mississippi River for the Crown.  He protected the port of Chicago, not only from the rebel Yankees, but also from the _Parti Québécois_ , French Canadians who felt that the unrest in the Dominion of America offered them the best chance to secede from English-speaking Canada and form their own nation.

Stuart’s younger brothers, Archibald and Clement, did their part in putting down the rebellion as well.  Archibald commanded the first true ironclad warship, _HMS Monitor_.  When mutineers aboard _HMS Virginia_ turned their vessel into a fireship and tried to set it amongst the rest of the squadron anchored in Hampton Roads, Captain Reed and his crew succeeded in sinking it before it could do much damage.  In comparison to the wooden ships in the squadron, the _Monitor_ had much less to fear from a fireship, and the movable turret gave it a much wider field of fire.  _Monitor_ did have a vulnerability, though.  With a draft of only about 10 feet, the ship, described as a “biscuit tin on a shingle” was basically a semi-submersible.  It didn’t handle rough seas well.  A few months after its heroic action, the _Monitor_ sank in a gale off the North Carolina coast.  In the best tradition of the Royal Navy, Captain Reed went down with his ship.

Clement commanded the world’s first successful submarine - that is, if one defines success solely on the basis of sinking its prey.  _HMS Hunley_ , which was named for its inventor, was a hand-powered ship that had snuck into the Rebel-controlled port of Charleston, South Carolina, and sunk the blockade runner vaingloriously named _USS Alabama._   Unfortunately, the _Hunley_ had sunk along with its victim and another Captain Reed went down with his ship. 

At the turn of the millennium, the Tucker Family Foundation would donate much of the money that made it possible to find and raise both the _Monitor_ and the _Hunley._   The long dead Captains Reed were finally laid to rest, with all the pageantry of a funeral with full military honors, in the family plot behind the great wrought iron gate at Elmwood.

After the end of the Second War of the American Rebellion in 1863, the Yanks seemed finally to have learned and accepted their place in the Empire.  They joined the mother country in the Anglo-German War of 1914 that secured Europe for the Empire, the Anglo-Russian War of 1941 that brought an end to the Bolshevik heresy and made the vast lands of Russia a part of the Empire and the Anglo-Chinese War of 1954 that secured Asia once and for all for the Empire.  Oh, there were a series of “dirty little wars” in the Mideast during the reign of Elizabeth II.  Misguided Brits and Yanks alike, from “Mad Anthony” Blair to the Bush Brothers, followed in the footsteps of T. E. Lawrence, the so-called “Lawrence of Arabia”, in trying to foment rebellion in this oil-rich part of the Empire, but they all failed miserably.  By the reign of King William V, a united Earth under the Empire enjoyed a renaissance akin to that of the 1500s and 1600s.  The warp drive was developed, and manned deep space exploration finally became possible.  Over the years, there had been talk of creating a Royal Air Force separate from the Royal Navy that would be responsible for the Empire’s space program, but there was always an Earl Reed about to make sure that the space program remained the exclusive domain of the fleet air arm.

First contact had been made with the Vulcans in 2151.  It had taken 10 years, but by 2161, this proud (despite their claim of being emotionless and logical), secretive and powerful people were ready to sign a treaty of friendship with the Empire.  Captain Malcolm Reed, commander of the Empire’s first warp 9 vessel, a vessel faster and more powerful than anything the Vulcans possessed, had been named ambassador plenipotentiary for her Majesty’s government.  He was considered to be the perfect man for the job for a number of reasons:  He was the only son of one of the oldest and greatest noble military families in the Empire.  He was related through his sister’s marriage to the Imperial house itself.  Finally, his strict English upbringing and carefully crafted mask of command made him seem almost as emotionless as a Vulcan when the situation demanded it. 

The treaty of friendship had been signed between Vulcan and the Empire.  There had been a banquet in celebration.  Reed had been assured that everything offered to eat and drink was safe for humans.  He’d eaten a Vulcan fruit that vaguely resembled pineapple.  That was the last thing he remembered. 

“Charles, how did I end up in sickbay yet again?”

“Doc says you had an id-io-syn-crat-ic reaction to that fruit you ate.  Didn’t bother the rest of us any, just you.”

“Ah, an allergic reaction then.”

“Precisely,” the doctor confirmed.  “A rather nasty anaphylactic reaction that gave you congestive heart failure with flash pulmonary edema.  You would have felt as if you were drowning."

"That sounds vaguely familiar," Reed replied with a rather sardonic tone of voice the doctor chose to disregard.

"I believe I can give you shots periodically to control the problem if you find you fancy the fruit.”

“Not bloody likely, doctor.”

“You’ll be fine, Captain, but you do need to rest a bit longer.”

Reed sighed.  “Charles, I’ll leave the ship in your capable hands.  Since this is a peaceful mission, do try to refrain from starting a war with our chief engineer whilst I'm otherwise engaged.  I need both you and Mr. Archer to be at your best.  No teasing him about his antecedents.  Am I clear?”

“Aye, sir,” Tucker said immediately.  After a pause, he added _sotto voce_ , “But it ain’t my fault Jon Archer can’t take a joke.”  Reed merely sighed again.

“Come, Commander, the captain needs to sleep.” 

As the doctor led Tucker out of sickbay, Trip asked quietly, “Is he really going to be OK by tonight, Doc?  You know Chef wants to make Malcolm’s favorite double chocolate cake in the shape of the _Enterprise_ for the birthday party the crew’s throwing him.  That’s going to take awhile.  Is it a go or what?”

“Yes, Commander, it’s a go.  You can pass the word to Chef.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Tucker said as the doors to sickbay whooshed shut.

After checking to ascertain that his patient was comfortable and fast asleep, Dr. Daniels reflected that things had finally worked out in the end.  As best as he could ascertain, the timeline had finally been correctly restored.


End file.
